Genealogy and a Quiet Weekend at Home

I’m going to be inside the yurt colony on Wednesday and Thursday, and at the library all day on Friday, so I thought I’d crank out a rare Sunday update this week.

Why no yurt on Friday, you ask? Because the rental prices nearly double on Friday and Saturday. That’s why. Plus, the place is usually overrun with howling buzzcut hicklets on the weekends. And I can’t have that.

So, I’m gonna move my base of operations to the li-bary, thank you very much. Hopefully no obese ‘n’ shirtless lunatics will show up, and start throwing haymakers at potted plants. Sheesh.

It was an uneventful weekend, here at Surf Report Central. The oldest boy got back safely from his whirlwind trip to Washington, DC. And that’s been the highlight, so far.

The Smithsonian and the seafood buffet seemed to be his two favorite attractions, in case you were wondering.

And he said he put his foot up on a step at Arlington Cemetery, to tie his shoe, and some man went wild on him, hollering and saying he was being disrespectful to the “war dead.”

“I’m tying my shoe,” he said, confused.

And the man reportedly answered, “Oh, and now you’re going to start talking trash, too?”

Yeah, who the hell knows? It’s possible that I’m not getting a completely accurate retelling of events. But on the other hand… I’ve been to DC, and know that such a baffling scenario is not outside the realm of possibility.

Other than that, it was pretty quiet around here. I mowed the lawn on Thursday, which sucked while it was happening. But I loved it when all the neighbors were mowing on Friday and Saturday, and mine was already done.

I think I could get addicted to “having mown” smugness. I really do.

My brother is heavily into genealogy. He’s told me all manner of trivia about our ancestors, but a few days ago I started thinking about our family’s country of origin. After all these years, and all the stories, I can’t remember him telling me the most basic of all information…

So, I texted him, and asked.

“England,” was his reply. And somehow that pleases me. I’ve had a fascination (fixation?) with the UK all my life, and now I have a justification for it. Not that I needed one, mind one. I’ll fixate on any damn thing I please…

Anyway, my brother’s full of interesting factoids about the Kays (as well as my mother’s family) who came before us. He’s told me dozens of crazy stories.

Including one about a great-uncle (or somesuch) who was on a catwalk over an open-top “drip gas” tank, whatever that is. He supposedly dropped his pack of cigarettes into the gas, tried to fish them out, and fell in. He drowned inside the tank, because his Chesterfields had gotten away from him.

Also, there’s the tale of a man who was married to our great grandmother. He was supposedly so dumb he didn’t know enough to stoop while getting into a car. So he’d just repeatedly walk into the side of the vehicle, standing bolt-upright.

Heh. Can that possibly be true?

I actually remember that old guy. He was deeply religious, and would sometimes stop talking in mid-sentence, and cock his ear like a dog. Then he’d go tearing out of the house, screaming, “I’m coming, Jesus! I’m coming!!” Scared the living crap out of me.

I’ve also been told that he turned circles while walking downhill. What the hell, man?

And that’s gonna be my Question for this Hallmark Corporation Sunday: has anyone tracked your family genealogy? If so, did it turn up anything of interest? What’s your country of origin? Do you have any good stories to tell about your predecessors? You know, that kind of thing… Use the comments link below.

Comments

“drip gas” is a natural condensate byproduct of oil drilling. It’s similar in structure to gasoline. Back in the depression (first one), they used it in their Model T’s. Modern engines would gag on the stuff.

So a pack of smokes floating in this stuff would be pretty worthless anyway.

The drip gas tank that Jeff’s great-uncle fell into and drowned, held ground water that had been separated from a natural gas well.

At least that is my understanding. A neighbor of our great-uncle had a natural gas well on his property. And he (our uncle) asked the owner of the well could he get a bucket of drip gas from his holding tank.

The owner did not object, but found it odd. While leaning over with bucket in hand he lost his smokes from his pocket. The newspaper wrote that he apparently dropped the bucket and was trying to retrieve it.

But the family lore is that it was his cigs from his breast pocket. Regardless of what he was trying to fish out, he either leaned too far or was overcome by fumes and fell.

A couple of rescuers were nearly overcome by the fumes as well. They retrieved his body from the tank by looping a rope around an ankle and hoisted him up out of there.